by Lisa Rosenkranz

Created on: May 01, 2008

At five-thirty in the morning, the shrill ringing of the telephone woke me from my sleep. A telephone that rings at the wrong hour never bears good news. I picked up the receiver with dreaded anticipation and heard my mother's hysterical voice on the other end of the line. Her first words had been, "we lost Gramma." My mind filled with questions to quickly to interpret. My grandmother was seventy-three years old and had been diagnosed with lung cancer a couple of years ago. We all knew that death was on the not-to-distant horizon, but she had been doing well. She completed chemo and the cancer had shrunk. I picked her up for church every Sunday and Mom took her for cheeseburgers everyday and to Wal-Mart every Monday. Her mind had been slipping and the doctors said she should not be driving, but she was still Gramma. She could still move around on her own and breathe on her own, and she could still smoke her precious cigarettes.

The next words from my mom were, "there was a fire, and the house is gone." Like salt on a fresh wound, these words pelted my psyche with an unbelievable blow. She said my aunts Janie and Bonnie were okay, and that she needed a collar and a leash for Dana, Bonnie's Great Dane. I told her I would be there right away and hung up the phone.
I was already crying hysterically as the words my mother spoke painted a picture that would haunt me forever. Not only was my grandmother dead but the house that my grandfather built, where my mother grew up, where three generations of memories were made, was gone, consumed by the least forgiving force in all of nature. It was one of the last pieces of my childhood that remained in this world, a place that had always been warm and full of love.

I stood in front of the charred remains of the house still in disbelief. The fire had destroyed the south end while the north end was left a burnt shell. Janie's Cavalier that was always parked in front of the garage was destroyed. The paint peeled from the hood and the entire front end melted away. The large upright deep freeze that sat in the garage resembled a crumpled pop can. Where the garage, kitchen, and Aunt Janie's room once were, the sun shone brightly onto the heaps of burnt rubble. The charred skeleton of the fireplace stood alone where a wall that held at least five generations of photos once accompanied it. The television sets had melted, the garage that my grandfather had built brick by brick crumbled when the roof caved in, nothing was spared. It was all gone, everything taken in a matter of minutes.

Walking through what was once a home but was now a horrendous mess with the putrid scent of sopping wet burnt trash that would linger in my nose for days, a flood of memories surged through my thoughts. Each was precious, for they were the memories of my grandparents. Even as a very young child, my grandparents were extremely dear to me. They were kind and sweet, never scolded me or raised their voices. Of course, I would have never dreamed of giving them any reason to have to reprimand me. Grandparents are jewels to be treasured, for our time with them is quite limited. Their love was unconditional and generous. Every moment spent is a moment to be cherished for rest of time.

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